


the end is the beginning

by AnnieMar



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 1971 paris, F/M, Flashback, Music, if you know your music history you can guess the event, returning memories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:52:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25639807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnieMar/pseuds/AnnieMar
Summary: Sometimes the most random of songs can bring Bucky back to historical events that the Winter Soldier was witness to. He tries to let it flow instead of fighting it.Prompt: Therapy through music to heal from brainwashing.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Darcy Lewis, Jane Foster & Darcy Lewis
Comments: 7
Kudos: 112
Collections: Marvel Undercover 2020





	the end is the beginning

Shuri had warned him that it would happen eventually, memories flooding back at inopportune times and inconvenient places. "You must be prepared," she'd said. He was instructed to let it flow, to not resist. Fighting it only made things worse. 

Ironically, he'd forgotten the warning, as there had been so much that happened between Wakanda and his present situation that he hadn't sat still long enough to think about anything other than what crisis was happening _right here now_. 

It could be as simple as an aroma that could trigger it. A piece of music. A conversation, a familiar place. A sense of Deja Vu and a rush of recollection. He wasn't particularly surprised that it happened first with a song, as he'd always been so fond of them. He just never thought it would occur with one he barely knew existed, having only ever heard it once. 

He sat at Darcy's computer in the lab … well, calling it just a computer was an understatement. It was more like a station with several monitors. A command central. She claimed to need it for "multitasking," but her version seemed to be writing in a computer language he didn't understand while playing games and watching CNN. She also liked scrolling through some sort of beauty supply website. 

Bucky looked at some of her open tabs and sure enough … _Sephora_. 

He liked using her big monitor for searching craigslist and eBay for old motorcycle parts. He also liked watching her build things with Jane. The way she'd absentmindedly pull her hair back and twist it into a bun. How she put glasses on for the more meticulous stuff and slid them down her nose. How she masterfully changed the subject when something wasn't clicking, and Jane got upset. The mental respite always helped to bring about solutions much easier. 

Dary was currently in her subject changing mode. "Is Jim Morrison, a good singer? I can't tell." 

"Of course he's a good singer," Jane said as she poured over a comically large book. 

"He didn't have a particularly great vocal range." 

"Doesn't matter. He had a great baritone voice, something different." 

"Yeah, but different doesn't mean good. It might mean memorable, but does it mean exceptional?" 

"He had a great presence." 

"But that doesn't mean he was a great singer and he didn't play an instrument on stage. What did he do exactly?" 

"He wrote the songs." 

"He wrote some lyrics." 

Jane stood up and walked over to the computer that had the lab Spotify account open and made a few clicks. 

Whimsical organ music and a baritone voice began to fill the room. After a few moments, the deep voice broke into an impactful scream. Like a singing/screaming/growling hybrid. Bucky had to admit, it definitely had an effect. 

" _That_ is what he did, Darcy." 

She nodded. "Okay yeah, that's valid." 

_I'm a back door man, I'm a back door man, the men don't know, but the little girls understand …_

Darcy tilted her head in thought. "Do you think this song means … _Nah_." 

"I mean … what else could it mean? That he literally uses the back door to a girl's house? You think Jim Morrison was the type to be so on the nose? Or do you think he liked a good double entendre? 

"I don't think The Doors actually wrote this one, it's an older blues song, I think it's just about going to see a married woman." 

"Hm." 

Bucky inclined his head, knowing he'd probably regret asking. "What are you girls talking about?" 

They both turned to look at him as if they'd forgotten he was there, their eyes widened a little. Darcy shrugged. "Nothing." 

He raised a brow. 

Jane sighed. "Google' back-door', Bucky, you'll figure it out." 

Darcy shook her head. "Don't. Trust me. You'll see things you can't unsee, and I don't want it in my search history." 

"Ummm …" 

In the end, Jane was all about being direct. "It's sex. But you know … in the back door, as opposed to the front door." 

He knit his brows together. "Oh …" It then became clear and quite obvious. " _Oh_. Right. Of course." 

"Sorry if we scandalized you," Darcy grinned. 

"No, no, of course not … but what year was this? I doubt that's what's meant." 

"Errr … 1967." 

"Probably not then. 

"Oh, well, you probably know more about it than us … I mean, about the music and the year, I don't mean that you…" 

Bucky gave a nervous laugh. "I don't, though. I'm just assuming." 

"Right." 

Jane quickly changed tunes. "Hey, if they were a band today, do you think they'd be popular?" 

"What … as a group of old dudes like The Rolling Stones? Or when they were young." 

They started up their music debating again as Bucky noticed the song changing to something much slower and atmospheric.

_This is the end … my only friend, the end …_

A mournful guitar begins, a soft bass, a subtle tambourine, the voice. The drums become front and center, while the organ and guitar dance in the background, his thoughts are directed towards a cafe. It's painted a garish yellow-orange, the interior looking like any of the other same sorts of establishments in Montmartre. 

He sits at a table, newspaper in front of him, giving the appearance that he's doing something besides spying on his American target across the street. It's an old road, practically ancient, but decently populated. People are dressed smartly, although perhaps a bit more creatively than other places. It's where young people gather. Rebellion always had specific energy, and this corner of Paris thrived on it. 

A local girl walks up to him, she's wearing all black, much like him … he always wears it. She wears her dark hair long and down around her face, parted down the middle. Her eyelashes are artfully arranged with mascara, making her eyes look bigger and wide open. She looks down at a picture in the newspaper, then back at him. 

She nods. "You look like him." 

He glances to see what she's talking about. A singer called Jim Morrison has apparently died. The cafe must be playing his music, the young patrons huddle in small groups and speak softly, all in a daze. The cause being something different than the psychedelics that went around like candy. They're sad and shocked, nodding along to a mournful tune that fills the room. A deep and rich voice tells them it's the end. 

_I'll never look into your eyes again._

The girl gives him a small smile, reclaiming his attention. "And you are American like him?" She says it in English, assuming he'd understand. 

He blinks. He's _not American_. 

_Can you picture what can be, limitless and free …_

The face in the newspaper looks at him with an expression he's only seen on American men. It's confident yet vulnerable. It feels at liberty to do as he damn well pleases … dares onlookers to call the morality police. It's a face that's free to make girls feel like they're the only woman in the world that's ever been so beautiful. 

He always liked making them feel that way, too, like an American. 

There's a thought that flashes through his mind of an American uniform and a crowd of people. He smiles like an American as if he's sure he'll have a bright future. As if he's going to come home in a few months and marry this girl. He sees a shield, and a train gets smaller and smaller as he falls. 

He abruptly stands from the table, making the French girl step back, her features pinched together in concern. This is all wrong, he's drawing attention to himself, he has to get out of there. 

He walks out of the cafe, leaving the blasted newspaper on the table, the never-ending song with its organ and guitar refusing to have the courtesy of coming to a climax. The dead singer's screams fade away as his boots hit the sidewalk outside. An American died in Paris. Two didn't need to die—two of his countrymen. 

He's… _American_. 

He forgets his target, who never knows how close to assassination he was. 

The Asset disappears for three weeks. When they finally find him, he's immediately put on ice, they don't even bother with the damn words. 

"Bucky?" 

He blinked several times to see Darcy in front of him, the lab slowly fading back into view. He was in New York, he was in a new century, he had come back from the dead many times … this didn't need to be so different. 

It took him a few attempts to speak. "Y-yeah. I'm here." 

She reached out a hand to touch his face, hesitating a moment, as they were still finding their way in things, haven't discussed yet what's appropriate levels of contact when a person is coming about of a … a vision? A memory? So real, he can still smell the aroma of coffee from 1971 in Paris. 

Darcy must have decided to throw caution to the wind because one hand became two as she held his face on either side. She bent down and looked into his eyes. "Yes. You're here," she said softly, but with authority. 

He put a hand over hers and nodded, giving her a watery smile. "I know." 


End file.
